


Maeror

by LeTempest



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Nasir/Laeta friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:13:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeTempest/pseuds/LeTempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nasir is no stranger to grief and pain. But it never been like this. It has never hurt this much. He is not supposed to be alone in this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maeror

**Author's Note:**

> After friday's episode I was having a crap ton of Nasir feels. Agron pretty much was like "got to go die now! Stay alive! I love you!" and Nasir had no say in the matter, no time to grieve. So this is pretty much that.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Spartacus. Sadly.

             _It should not be this hard_ , Nasir thought to himself, _It should not hurt this much._

            Still he forced each step to carry strength and purpose. He was a good solider, he followed command. But even more, his was good man. He would follow his lover’s last request. He did as he must because, in his own mind, he owed Agron everything. Because he did not have the heart to deny the man the one thing he wanted more than Nasir. What that is exactly though, Nasir could not know.

            It was a fact that did little to quell the Syrian’s heart ache. It was not like he’d thought it would be. It was all encompassing, bearing down on him like the weight of water on a drowning man. He ate, drank, slept, because he knew he must. But there was a constant numbness, a cold he could not shake. Like the sadness had ceased to be sadness, like it has ceased to be anything but a vast emptiness. It sucked everything else into its depths until Nasir feels empty inside.

            But there were moments when feeling returned, so sudden and fierce that it frightened him. It was a sorrow that knocked him to his knees in the quiet of his tent, that forced him to the ground, shook him so hard that he felt he might break apart, robbed him of breath. But more often, it’s the rage that comes first, a heat that boiled out of him in waves. It was a desperate, clawing need for pain, for reaction, for something. Anything. To make someone, just for a moment, feel as ruined as he felt.

            Most time he could feel the beast begin to wake in him, was able to sneak away, to find something to slash, or spear, or break, beyond the concerned gazes of those he called friend. But not always.

It was Castus who first felt the sting of such lost anger. They had spoken little since their encounter around the fire. These days Nasir could barely stand to look at the man, not because of any words passed between them, but because he truly did find Castus pleasing to the eye. Once, he had even let his thoughts wander to the man’s bed, when cold and loneliness bit too harshly at his heels. But Nasir could not look upon the Sicilian without being reminded of what he had lost. Of the body that had once warmed his bed, of the man who had once held him close in the night and chased away the nightmares of another life. He could not look upon Castus without being reminded of the uncertainty, of not knowing whether Agron still walked this Earth, of knowing it didn’t matter, because he would not see his lover’s smile again.

It had been an innocent exchange, a touch not of lust but of friendly concern. Lost to his thoughts, Nasir had not heard the former pirate call out his name, had not heard him inquire about the Syrian’s barely touched food. It was not until a calloused hand rested upon his shoulder. He’d spun, leaping to his feet, spitting and snarling at the one who’d dared lay hand upon him. He struck out, blindly, catching Castus across the jaw. It was not until the man’s hand caught his wrist, already moving for a second blow, that he came back to himself.

He avoided the cook fires after that, preferring to take his meals alone.

            He was wary and careful of himself after that but in the end he could not battle the  venomous darkness in his own mind forever.

            It was Sibyl, sweet and gentle in a way that reminded Nasir so much of the girl Chadara had once been,  who found herself beneath his wrath. He’d been organizing supplies when he’d felt the creeping of bitter anger into his heart, listening to her coo and crow about Gannicus and her love for him. Kore, with her sad eyes and her wise soul, was listening patiently to the girl’s excitable whispers. He knew he had no reason to be jealous, and so he swallowed down his hateful words, trying not to listen. But every tender declaration of love was like a knife in his gut. He didn’t want to hurt her, not really.  Still the words had slithered from his tongue, sharp and cruel.

            “A farm perhaps,” She sighed dreamily to Kore, “With goats and sheep and children.”

            Nasir gave a bitter snort and felt her eyes turn to him in question. He had ever been companionable with her. But he rarely spoke to anyone these days.

            “Save your dreams for sleep, little thing, for you will never find such a future with a man of the arena. They would rather die than trade sword for hoe.”

            She blinked at him, taken aback.

            “But he-“

            “They say many things that are not true, some times they even believe them. But one day the cry of battle will be too strong for him and he will go. Because no matter what he tells you in the safety of your bed, he will never love you as much as he loves the glory of the kill. He will never long for freedom the way he longs for the for roman blood. Life with you, a life free, will never be enough, you will never enough, to replace the life he has always known. It is only a matter of time before he realizes that, before he too runs off to meet his death. Leave him while you still can or he will make a widow of you yet.”

            “Nasir!” A sharp voice called, and the Syrian turned to see the Celt not steps behind him.

He met the former champion with a stony expression, ready to fight. But it was not anger he saw in Gannicus eyes, nor in Sibyl’s. Just shock and confusion. But most of all, he saw pity. The rage left him then, pandering out to a grief and shame that sat heavy in his stomach. He shoved his way past them, stumbling for his tent.

He felt the trembling in his bones, his breathing catching. He slid to his knees, arms wrapped tight around him as he forced his lungs to expand

            _I ask only that you live._

“I do not want to live like this,” he whispered into the shadows, “I do not think I can bear it.”

            “Bear what?”

            Nasir reached for his blade, brandishing it at the stranger, hackles raised.

            Laeta stood before him, her hands raised in a gesture of peace, her eyes watching the knife’s edge warily. But her eyes held no fear.

            Nasir took a shuddering breath, trying to gather the frayed edges of his sanity.

            “Nothing,” he growled, “Why have you come? Is there some problem with the supplies?”

            “No,” she said cautiously, letting the flap of the tent drop behind her, “Kore told me that you had words with Sibyl.”

            “I spoke only the truth,” he pushed himself to his feet, searching madly for some way to busy himself, “one she would have learned soon enough. The girl will be alright in time.”

            Laeta took a few cautious steps.

            “Gannicus can calm Sibyl well enough on his own. It was you Kore was concerned about.”

            Nasir’s spine stiffened. Kore was clever and observant. He should have known if anyone would see, it would be her.

            “Gratitude but it is concern misplaced,” he said, sitting, reaching for a wet stone.

            “Is it,” Laeta asked, moving to kneel before him. Her hands still soft by comparison, reached to take his hands, stilling him.

            The Syrian gave a shuttering sigh, starring down at the stone in his hands.

            “You have not spoken of it since he left, what passed between you.”

            “And I will not speak of it now,” he snarled, jerking from her touch as if burned.

            “Nasir,” she prompted, her voice heavy with concern.

            “What good will it do?” he snapped, turning on her, “What good will words do? Will they return him to my side or me to his? They could not turn his mind from the choice. What comfort can they bring now that he is gone?”

            She watched him with a look of great sadness, standing. He steps were slow and sure, even as she reached to touch his face. He turned from the caress, but not quickly enough. She cradled his cheek in her hands.

            “There are no words to heal a broken heart. It will always leave a scar. But if you let the wound fester, it will kill you.”

            Her skin was warm against his own and he found himself leaning into the touch. The tears burned but he could not stop them, could not fully choke the sob that escaped him.

            “I wish it would,” he whispered, “Why must I live, to spare him the pain of my passing, when he would not do the same for me? How could he ask this thing of me, when he was not willing to do so himself?”

            Laeta stoked away the tears.

            “We are selfish creatures, all of us, in our own ways, though we often do not mean to be. Perhaps, in his own mind, he believed this was the right thing, to ensure you would find a freedom he did not have the strength to go after.”

            “He was my freedom,” Nasir shouted, fingers fisting in his hair as he turned from her touch, “He was all I ever wanted, more than I had ever imagined I would have. He taught me how live, how to breath, how to trust, and fight, and love. I never wanted anything else. And now it’s gone and I am lost. It isn’t fair that I should be the one to linger.”

            “No, it isn’t,” she relented, closing the gap between them again,“ and yet the fact remains. You do not realize it Nasir, but you have always been strongest among us. It is a truth that Spartacus has spoken often.  Agron knew it too. You have always put yourself aside for the greater good. But you are not a titan, as much as you may appear. You are allowed to fear, and hurt, and mourn. It is your right.”        

             Her arms wrapped tight around him and in her embrace he broke. He was an animal then, wounded beyond imagining. She stroked his hair and offered gentle words but she did not hush him. He had lost his heart but never been given the chance to mourn it. But in Laeta’s arms he did mourn, in the arms of the woman who’s life blood had once stained his hands, whom he had breathed life and breath back into, he found his own wounds purged.

            She held him until exhaustion crept over him like blanket, until there was nothing. They sat in silence for a long time, his head resting in her lap now, he fingers combing through his sweat damp hair.

            “Thank you,” he whispered, finally.

            “You once showed me kindness, though you had suffered greatly at the hands of my people. You saved my life when I was alone in this world. You have treated me as equal despite the fact that I stand as roman still. To help soothe grieving heart is the least I can do for such a friend.”

            “Will you stay,” he asked, “I promise I will be better come morning. But I fear the darkness tonight, and the dreams it will bring.”

            “Of course.”


End file.
